There were no more arrows coming, so the soldiers slowed to a walk, looking back every few seconds, but none made a move to load his crossbow. Heads bowed, shoulders slumped, they trudged past Bundy with hardly a glance. But Freeway stopped in front of Bundy. The two men stared at one another. They were of equal height.
Frost yelled “Abraham! Come on!” and motioned violently with his arm. But Bundy appeared not to hear. He just stood there staring back at Freeway. Finally Bundy raised his fist and shook it and shouted “They that sow wickedness reap the same.”
Freeway slid out his sword.
The dogs were quiet at last, and the women on the stub of the overpass had stopped wailing and screaming. Fundy’s powerful baritone voice floated over the bridge and the river and the field. “By the blast of God they perish....”
Freeway lunged. Before Bundy could fall Freeway jerked the sword free and dropped it. He spun Bundy’s limp form, squatted, lifted him high above his head, stepped up onto the sidewalk. Bundy’s long arms hung out wide. His head was flung back. Freeway threw him from the bridge.
The morning tide was running upriver, not fast, but steadily. Some dark portion of Abraham Bundy bobbed two or three times above the murky water, but soon the current had borne him under the bridge and out of sight.
Freeway followed his men over the crest of the bridge.
Frost and Daniel Charlie and the archers turned to face the field. Six men held six dogs that whined and rose lunging on their hind legs. For a minute the men stood there in the rain, motionless, taking in the scene of butchery. Two men walked away a short distance and retched.
Frost shook his head. He said “Jesus Christ, Daniel.”
Daniel Charlie said “Yeah.”
“God damn.”
“I know.”
They were silent for a while. Then Frost said “Grace was right. What she said.”
“What was that?”
“War. She said war.”
Then one of the bodies stirred. It was the soldier in whose embrace the dead dog was lying. He rolled onto his back and struggled up onto an elbow. One arm was still trapped under the dog. He looked at Frost’s men nearby. His face was torn and bloody. He raised his free arm. He reached out. Wing’s man, Pender, walked toward him. Pender had his spear, with a metal head as wide as a saucer. Frost turned away, fixed his eyes on the women heading back down the overpass, determined to hear only their wailing. But Pender’s grunt as he struck was loud.
On the overpass some of the women were running now. Their keening rose like a wind, a howling gale. Frost walked to meet them at the point where they would be able to leave the roadway. But behind him one of his men called “Frost.” He turned.
A body stirred, lifted a hand, scraped a foot against the soil. Frost knew the face, It was Fundy’s field boss. Frost scanned the fallen bodies. He listened for cries of pain.
A boy sprang up from the ground and ran toward him. He was smaller than Will. He was barefoot but had a wool poncho. His heap of dark hair was caked with mud. His eyes were wide and staring, and his face was as white as paper.
Then three figures emerged from the darkness under the bridge, where they had been hidden behind the sheer end of the concrete embankment. A man in skins and a woman in a long brown cloth dress were helping another man to walk. With their aid he hopped, holding one leg off the ground. The bare skin of the calf was dark with blood. “Frost! Frost!” screamed the woman. All this before the boy reached him.
On the bridge the small black dog came racing back.
33
“This here is for Frost.”
Along the walk leading from the church Robson pushed an office chair. The rolling wheels purred and rattled.
It was morning, not very early. The rain had let up only an hour before. The walk and the street were wet, and the tall grey-ochre grass at the front of the church drooped or lay flattened. On blackberry vines heaped over the sidewalk, drops of water hanging from the thorns caught some brilliance from the sky. High clouds were coasting north-eastwards, torn by infrequent patches of blue.
101 helped Robson tie the chair onto Noor’s cart. Noor and Ice and Powell stood on the sidewalk watching.
Noor said “Gifts like that, Grampa’s likely to send me to visit the Church Gang every day.”
Beauty snorted. Her breath plumed in the cold air. She stamped once. They all laughed.
101 said “She don’t like the sound of that.”
Noor said “She wants to get back, is all.”
Powell said, more loudly then necessary “What kind of knot do you call that?”
101 said “This here is called a mind-your-own-business knot.” He looked up and nodded severely in Powell’s direction. The flaps of his thick peaked cap hung over his ears. He was skinny and had a pointed nose.
Powell said “Looks to me more like a lose-the-chair knot. A fall-off-at-the-first-bump knot.”
Robson and 101 ignored him for a minute. Then 101 said “It’s a stick-your-neck-in-here knot. Come closer and I’ll show you.”
Ice stood beside Noor, with her arm around her shoulders and the collar of her navy blue pinstripe suit coat turned up. She was three inches taller than Noor. She said “I’ll show the both of yous, if yous don’t shut up.”
Noor stepped forward and tugged a handful of hay from the single garbage bag on the cart. She dropped it in front of Beauty, who nosed it around, snorted again and tossed her head. Noor gathered it and stuffed it back into the bag. She stood in the road looking up at the hulking and silent ruins in whose shadow the church squatted. For a second the sun flashed through eastern clouds. A gust of fresh, chill wind shook water from some high ledge, and there was a sprinkle of minute rainbows, brief as an eye-blink. Then a deep gloom moved like a hand over the street, and those gathered around the workhorse and the cart lifted their faces toward the skating clouds.
Spring came out of the church. She had no coat, just her faded red-and-black plaid logger’s shirt with her strings of beads, her grey flannel dress-pants held up by wide, striped braces, her battered leather shoes. Like the others, she wore what she had been wearing when Noor arrived. She was very fat and walked with a waddle. Her dirty-blond hair spilled over her shoulders in disordered waves. She was smiling. She had a small white plastic bag.
Noor walked to meet her. She accepted the bag, opened it, reached in, said “What are these?” She drew out a squared-off object wrapped tightly in smooth, shiny paper. It sat in her hand as if it belonged there. She studied the writing on the paper.
Spring was still smiling.
Noor said “Camay.”
Spring said “Smell it.”
Noor brought the bar up to her nose. She said “God.”
“It’s soap.”
Noor gave a short exhalation of wonder. “Soap. I haven’t seen soap since I was small. We used to make our own with fat from the chickens and cows. But you need wood ash. Peat ash is no good. And I’ve never seen soap that had a beautiful smell.”
From the street Hollyburn said “It’s called store-bought.”
Noor slipped the bar back into the bag and hugged Spring and kissed her on her soft cheek. As she stepped away 101 rushed past her toward the church door. He said “Wait till you see what I got for yous.”
Hollyburn followed him in.
Robson took the bag from Noor and found the binoculars on the cart and put them into the bag with the Camay hand soap and tucked the bag under the half-full garbage bag of hay and slid one of the sealed buckets of water up against it.
Powell stepped out into the street to talk to Beauty. He stood beside her, running his hand along her shoulder. She turned her head slightly toward him and watched him from her dark eye.
Ice said “Powell was meant to be a farm boy.”
Noor said “Come and visit us, Powell. You and Spring and Ash. Come and stay.” But Powell had not heard her, and continued talking to the horse.
Ice said “The city’s not so rich a
nymore. Especially for food. The rest we don’t really need. You seen all our wonderful trash. Useless. I suspect once we get hungry enough you’ll see all of us comin’ over that bridge.”
Noor said “In that case I hope your grub runs out tomorrow.”
101 came out of the church, almost running. He was waving a book. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Noor as Spring and Robson and Ice and Powell gathered to inspect the gift. It was a paperback book, whole, perfect, with a picture on the cover of a man, a woman and, in front of them, a boy. Just their faces and torsos. Looking out at the world. Smiling, content, clean. Wearing coloured T-shirts.
The bottom half of the cover was given over to the title. It said EMOTIONOMICS. Below that word, in smaller print, it said, Spiritual Wellness in the Age of Anxiety. And it said, Michael F. Weiner, PhD.
No one spoke. Except for 101, they gaped in awe and puzzlement at the thing in Noor’s hand. Ice reached out and touched the glossy faces. Finally 101 said “That’s how they looked then, I guess.”
Powell said “Can you read them words?”
Noor said “I can read them. But I don’t understand them. This one says wellness. This one says spiritual.”
Powell said “What the hell is that?”
Noor shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Just then Hollyburn came out of the church. He was toting two stuffed garbage bags. He said “Clothes. For yous at the farm.” He laid the bag on the cart. He said “Store bought.”
Noor said “Thank you, Hollyburn. Were any of those keepin’ skeletons warm when you found them?”
Hollyburn joined the group. He said “Spear-ritual. That there’s when you take your spear and you...”
He could not complete his definition because 101 was hitting him with the book. Noor cried “You’re going to bust it!”
101 gave the book back to Noor and said “Sorry, there, Noor. It just makes me so god damn mad when he starts goin’ on about things he don’t know nothin’ about.”
Hollyburn replied with calm superiority “You’re just jealous ’cause you’re so ignorant.”
Noor said “Come here. Thanks for the book.” She hugged 101.
101 went “Mmm" and said “Come into the back room with me. I might have more books.”
But Ice twisted his ear, and 101 went “Ow “ and let go of Noor.
Young Ash came out next. The brown cardigan hung down to his ankles. It was wool and had a raised pattern of ropes or braids. The sleeves had been cut to length. Like the others, he wore decrepit leather shoes. His blond hair hung in its helmet shape, straight and fine.
He was carrying the enormous candle that had sat in front of the fireplace. He was struggling under its weight. Robson stepped forward to help, but Ash twisted away and approached Noor, grimacing with effort. When Noor took it from him he exhaled loudly and made a gesture of collapse, and everyone laughed.
Noor said “Are you sure...?” and glanced at Robson, who nodded.
Ash said “It’s for Will. So’s he can read the book if it’s dark.” He had the excited, shrill voice of all boys.
Noor said “But you never even met Will.”
“Tell him it’s from me.”
She bent to kiss Ash on the head, but he lifted his face. She kissed him on the lips. When she straightened, her eyes were moist. She wiped them with a finger as Powell took the red candle to the cart.
They all stood there a moment, not speaking, not looking at one another. Then Ice made a slight gesture with her chin, and except for Noor and Robson they filed into the church.
Noor leaned against Robson as they walked very slowly toward the street. At the cart they faced each other and stood holding both hands. He said “I got nothin’ to say. I thought I would but I don’t.” He held her to him. She heaved with quiet sobs. He said “I know. I know.” Finally she stepped back and wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand.
He said “It’s made all the difference to me. You comin’. I get lonely. Even 101 don’t get lonely like me. I said I’m a Town boy. It ain’t true. I’m just a man. The only difference is, I’m lonelier than most.”
She laid a hand against his deep chest, the dazzling embroidery of his waistcoat. The end of the green and gold necktie that was wrapped once around his head hung down over the red and green and blue threads. Behind him the stained glass of the windows echoed the colours, but weakly. Nor was the building’s empty entrance as dark as his eyes and his wild hair.
She sniffed, said “You don’t have to be lonely.”
“I know. I’m thinkin’ on it.”
“You know where I live.”
He nodded. He slid his waistcoat off and held it for her. She slipped her arms through the armholes and stood there smiling and crying. They hugged again. She took two strides and vaulted up onto Beauty’s back. Robson handed her up her spear and her sword.
He said “Merry Christmas.”
She said “Happy times" and clucked, and tapped beauty with her heels, and Beauty leaned into the slight weight of her load, and they started off along the street.
The dead towers loomed above, excluding even the poor light of the day. She looked straight ahead, down the long, deserted, uneven, bush-grown street, refusing to acknowledge the silent ruins of the buildings. But soon she turned, looked back. The Church Gang were all there at the end of the walk, waving, shouting their goodbyes. In the silence that followed, the sound of a flute floated between the echoing walls like the call of a lost bird.
34
Fundy’s house was low – two storeys – but long. The earthquake had cracked it in half. The two sections stood a yard and a half apart, at a slight angle. The north half ended at a wall from which the drywall had long been rotted away, leaving rusted steel studs with sheets of plastic on the interior side. The south half of the house terminated in a room with no end wall, cluttered with rusted wheelbarrows, shovels, a blade from a plough, a car wheel that had lost its rubber, innumerable garbage bags and a scattering of decomposing potatoes.
The crevasse that had split the house ran for a ways toward the road but was now no more than a shallow dip. Yet it was a hazard for those carrying the dead and the wounded toward the main room of Fundy’s house.
Grace passed Newton and Richmond as they stepped carefully through the depression. She looked down at the man they were carrying. The face was white. The blue eyes were half open, unblinking. She stopped, looked away toward the river for a few seconds, took a long breath, continued, passing Newton and Richmond again, who had now negotiated the hollow. She said “Don’t bring him in.” The two men stood looking at each other for a few seconds, holding the drooping body by the knees and underarms. Then they walked sideways toward the house and lowered the body to the ground next to the wall, where there was less mud.
Grace stood for a moment facing the sheets of heavy plastic that covered the doorway. She set her black bag on the ground. She heard the moaning and the prolonged cries of men and women. She heard sobbing, wild shrieking. She closed her eyes, felt the rain falling on her head.
She looked back the way she had come. Newton and Richmond were returning to the potato field. The body of the man lay on its back alongside the house. Other men were coming with more bodies. Jessica and Salmon were hurrying toward the house. Grace started when the plastic over the doorway was torn aside. Frost stood there, tall, gaunt, stricken. For a second he stared at Grace. He seemed not to recognize her. But then he reached and took her bag and turned back into the room, and she followed.
The room was about twenty feet square, lit only by the doorway and a small window, which was also covered with plastic. Against the exterior wall squatted a small square fireplace of mortared building blocks, but the fire had not been lit. The bottom stairs of a staircase were visible through a doorway. The room swarmed with the same women who had watched the slaughter from the overpass. They sat or lay on the floor, keening over the dead men sprawled from wall to wall. Or they stood among the corpses,
weeping and trying to comfort one another. Near the far wall was one old man, the only upright man in the room besides Frost. He was barefoot, long haired, stubble-faced, and he wore the matching jacket and trousers of a patched dark grey suit. The man turned in a slow circle, then turned again, unable apparently to make sense of any of it. He held in one hand a black-covered book.
There was a brown couch, a Hide-a-Bed, which had been folded out. Here lay the man with the damaged leg, whom Frost had seen emerge from under the bridge. There was a blue sheet on the bed, patched with other colours. The area of the sheet around the wound was stained dark with blood. The boy from the field sat beside the man, holding his hand and crying. Fundy’s field boss lay on the other side of the man, moaning weakly, and a woman sat on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair. Among the dead and dying on the floor was a thin plastic-covered mattress. On this lay a woman. Her faint cries were heard only in gaps in the din of lamentation and pain.
Grace stood in the middle of the room. A trance seemed to have settled on her, making it impossible to move any farther. But then behind her the plastic sheets over the doorway rattled. Two women came in. They were carrying the body of the dead man who had been left outside. Grace stepped out of the way and looked down at the floor. The floor was white tile, mostly worn down to the concrete beneath. She saw the prints of her sandals in a film of blood. The women laid the body where she had been standing.
Since Tomorrow Page 22
